


Cellophane Soldier

by paperstorm



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5+1 Things, Captain America: The First Avenger, Established Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Language, Romance, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 10:29:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19972576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperstorm/pseuds/paperstorm
Summary: Five letters Bucky wrote to Steve during the war and didn't send, and the one he did send. Presented in the format of a history textbook printed six decades later.





	Cellophane Soldier

**Letters Recovered from Barnes’ Personal Effects**

  
After James Barnes’ death, his personal effects were returned by airmail to his family in the United States. His mother received a letter written personally by Colonel Phillips. This was an honor reserved for rare cases and usually awarded to fallen soldiers who had demonstrated exceptional bravery, valor, or whose death had facilitated the survival of fellow soldiers. Sergeant Barnes, it would be revealed years later through unit reports, had been captured by the German army in October 1943 along with several men from his unit. They were held at a Prisoner of War camp in Austria, and during their captivity Barnes was tortured, including possible medical experiments, for an undetermined amount of time. He was presumed dead. He was rescued in November 1943 by Captain Rogers, who, in an unsanctioned solo mission into Austria enabled by Agent Peggy Carter and Allied scientist Howard Stark, liberated the Austrian camp and freed its prisoners. All but three escaped, and the Axis soldiers manning the facility were all killed in the firefight.  
  
Removed from Sergeant Barnes’ effects before they were sent to his family, were five handwritten letters, found under the mattress of his cot at the base camp in Italy where he had been formally stationed. All were addressed to Captain Rogers, and were dated between June 23, 1943 and September 12, 1943. Two were sealed in envelopes and addressed to Rogers at their shared apartment in Brooklyn Heights, the others were simply folded as if in preparation for an envelope they would never encounter. There is no record of an attempt by Barnes to post these letters. A sixth letter was returned to the War Department by the U.S. Postal Service after it was deemed undeliverable: it had been mailed in late October to Captain Rogers, only days before Barnes’ capture. Likely unbeknownst to Barnes at the time, Rogers had already been deployed to Italy and was not in Brooklyn to receive the letter.  
  
These letters were kept, but hidden, by the War Department for over six decades after their discovery. Sergeant Barnes, while undeniably a war hero, was relatively inconsequential. Captain Rogers, however, in his capacity as Captain America, was a significant cultural figure, a national icon, and the symbolic embodiment of American ideals, and more importantly, Christian morals. It was decided by the U.S. Army that it would attract an undesirable brand of attention should the letters be made public knowledge, as the letters hinted at a covert homosexual relationship between Barnes and Rogers. Regardless, rumors spread of the letters' existence in the years following the war, fueled in part by public statements made by men who had served alongside Barnes and Rogers. Private Gabriel Jones, a close friend of Barnes during the war and himself a frequent victim of discrimination as an African American, was dishonorably discharged from the army in 1948 after giving several interviews to national publications in which he insisted Barnes and Rogers were in a romantic relationship and that it was a disservice to their memory for the U.S. government to conceal this fact. He was discharged from service on the basis of mental incompetency, and has recently been posthumously exonerated of these charges.  
  
In February 2007, a group of LGBT activists successfully petitioned the federal government to release the letters, citing the Freedom of Information Act and accusing the U.S. Army of discrimination and of dishonest representation in their continued celebration of Captain America. A series of public protests and demonstrations were staged in Washington, D.C., and in November 2007 the letters were released for public consumption.  
  
  
  
  
**First letter, dated June 23, 1943.**  
  
_Steve,_  
  
_Hey pal. Sorry I haven’t written yet, I know it’s been a few weeks. It was chaos when we first got here. It was only chaos for a few days, though, so I know that’s a shit excuse. Truth is, I don’t know what to say. I know how badly you want to be here, too. Don’t want to rub it all in your face, that I’m here and you’re not. Although, it needs to be said, it’s shitty here. It really is. I’m alright, I’m safe for now and they’re feeding us and all that but it’s hotter than the Devil’s ass crack, and it’s muddier than you can even imagine, and these canvas tents they have us camping in don’t do a damn to keep out the bugs. Flies like you have never seen, I’m covered in bites. Looks like I’ve got a pox or something. Remember when you had Rubella? I swear to Christ, that’s what my legs look like. I’m so itchy I could tear my skin right off my bones._  
  
_Nothing’s really happened yet. Guess I’m not sure I knew what war was really going to be like, but don’t you expect guns and shells and blood and everything? I did, anyway. We heard stories about the last one. Seen the men who came back from it, missing legs and arms and half their faces. This is going to be just the same as that. I never said that to you, because you wanted to be over here so bad and I didn’t want to take the wind out of your sails, but it’s the truth. I might come back missing a limb. If I come back at all._  
  
_But not yet. No action so far. After we all got sorted and settled, it’s mostly been a bore. We just sort of sit around all day and wait. For what, I don’t even know. To be attacked, I suppose? But I really couldn’t tell you._  
  
_The guys are nice, most of them, anyway. Some jerks, just like anywhere. There’s this one, name’s Gabe. I like him a lot. He’s a negro, so I suppose I feel a bit like he knows what it’s like to be different, same as you and me. Worse, though, for someone like him. We can pretend to be normal, he can’t pretend to have white skin. Puts things in perspective a bit. He’s real nice, anyway, and funny, and it’s good to have a friend, here. Since you can’t be here with me._  
  
_I don’t even know if I’ll send this. Don’t want it to seem like I’m rubbing it in, that you’re back at home when you don’t want to be. Or that I’m having all kinds of fun without you. Trust me, I’m not. But I don’t wish you were here. You’re going to be sore at me for that, if I do send this, but I don’t wish you were here and I’m not sorry about it. You’re right where you should be. You being safe is more important than you being here. Don’t care how much you’d yell at me about it, if I said that to your ugly mug._  
  
_I miss you, though. That I will say. Not sure what else to say, for now. Guess I’ll just end it. Never been good at words anyway, that was always you. I do miss you. I hope things are okay, back at home. Pet Mrs. Brown’s cat for me, would you? Next time you see her? Don’t want her thinking she’s been abandoned._  
  
_Bucky_  
  
  
  
  
**Second letter, dated July 4, 1943.**  
  
_So, this is the first time in almost 20 years I haven’t seen you on your birthday. Some years we only saw each other for a short time, some we spent the whole day together, but I always saw you on your birthday, since we were kids. I wouldn’t have even known it was today. It’s real hard to keep track of the days, here. They don’t matter, you don’t have shifts at work or newspapers to keep time straight in your head. Wouldn’t have known it was your birthday if it wasn’t also America’s birthday, and the whole camp didn’t go and get all patriotic about it. But they did, so I do. So happy 25 th birthday. Wish I was there to celebrate with you. I hope you’re doing something fun today, but knowing you, I doubt it. They broke out some booze here, so I’m a little fuzzy in the head as I’m writing this. Don’t know if you’ll be able to read it._  
  
_I know you can’t write to me. Because I didn’t send you the last letter I wrote, so you don’t have anywhere to send one back to. So that’s my fault. But damn I wish you would. Ain’t fair, I know that. Just miss you, is all. Miss you and wish you were here, and then I want to shoot myself right in the chest for even thinking that, because I don’t really wish you were here. Not at all. Wish I was home, is what I wish. But they shoot men on sight for deserting._  
  
_I didn’t enlist. I never told you that. I never, ever wanted you to know that. But I’m drunk and I miss you and now I don’t care. I didn’t enlist. I got called up. I wouldn’t be here, otherwise. Wouldn’t have ever enlisted on my own. I don’t give a shit about some war in some foreign country that I barely even heard of before they all started shooting each other up. I signed up for the reserve, years ago. For a bit of extra cash, because we needed it. Never told you that either. Didn’t want you to know, didn’t want you to feel badly about how God damn poor we always were, because I know you always thought that was your fault. Didn’t want you to worry one day I’d be called off to war and leave you all alone. Except I was, and I did._  
  
_We’ve seen some action in the last two weeks. Saw a man get shot right in his face. It exploded like nothing I’ve ever seen. Blood and brains everywhere. Didn’t look like something that could happen to a human. Carried a few injured men back to base camp. Their screams, Steve I couldn’t describe them if I wanted to. And I don’t want to._  
  
_Remember last year, on your birthday? Remember going out onto the fire escape and staring at the full moon together? It was late enough that there was no one around on the street underneath us, so I had my arm around you, and I kissed you in the moonlight. You looked so beautiful in the moonlight. All lit up and glowing, like you were from another world. Like you were a fairy prince, and not the kind that means queer. Like a real fairy, like something from a storybook, handsome and magical. I remember feeling like my heart was going to burst out of my chest just from looking at you. I remember kissing you, feeling like time stopped when I did. Remember taking you inside, laying you out on our bed, kissing every inch of you I could get to._  
  
_You always made the most beautiful, beautiful noises, when we were together like that. Always. Shakespeare could’ve written sonnets about those noises. I miss them so much. I hear them in my sleep, see you when I close my eyes. Feel you under my hands when I’m daydreaming. What if I took it all for granted? What then? I told you so many times that I loved you, but what if I didn’t do it good enough? The way you deserve? And what if I die out here, and I never get to tell you in person again?_  
  
_I hope I see you soon. And by that, I mean I hope this damned war is over soon and I can come back home, not that I hope you get your stupid wish and trick the army into taking you._  
  
_I just read this back, and I definitely won’t be sending this one. I know you, and if you knew what it was really like here, you’d just be even more desperate to get here, because you’re a fucking idiot. And it’s your birthday, and now I feel bad for writing that, even though you’ll never read it. I’ll probably throw this letter on the fire first thing in the morning, so I guess it doesn’t matter, since you’ll never know._  
  
_Happy Birthday, Stevie. God dammit, I love you._  
  
  
  
  
**Third letter, dated July 30, 1943.**  
  
_Steve,_  
  
_We’re on assignment, in France. Left two days ago, got here this afternoon and just finished setting up camp as the sun went down. There’s only a few of us. I can’t tell you what we’re doing here, they keep drilling into our heads that it’s all secret and we can’t barely speak it out loud even to each other unless we’re triple sure we aren’t being overheard. Definitely can’t put it into a letter, that might be intercepted by the Krauts. They’ve got spies everywhere. At least that’s what they keep telling us. I don’t know how much they actually know. Still seems like chaos, same as when I got here. Still seems like no one knows anything, and they just want to keep up appearances. I wouldn’t be surprised if every man here is just flying by the seat of his pants, even if he says he’s in charge._  
  
_I feel like such a selfish prick when I think things like that. Knowing you, knowing how bad you want to be here alongside me, and not because you like fighting. I know I’ve said that to you before. Accused you of just enjoying getting your face knocked in. I never meant it. I said it because I wanted you to stop picking fights with guys twice your size, because I wanted you to stop getting hurt just on account of that damn pride of yours. But I know it isn’t that. I know you’re good. That’s the crux of it. You’re good, and I’m not. At least, not as good as you. You care about doing what’s right, about standing up to bullies. That’s such a good quality, Steve. It really is, as much as I gave you shit for it. If I had a bit more of that, I wouldn’t be such a miserable bastard about being here. Because we are doing that. We are standing up against bullies. We are protecting the people who can’t protect themselves._  
  
_Shit I just heard_  
  
  
  
  
**Fourth letter, dated August 22, 1943.**  
  
_Hey Steve_  
  
_I’m glad I didn’t send that last one. Would have just worried you. I’m in the infirmary, back at base camp. Got myself shot. Don’t worry too much, I’ll live. Just a bullet in the arm. We were ambushed, I got shot in my right arm so I couldn’t use a pencil for a bit. Couldn’t do much of anything, really, while it healed. It hurt like you can’t imagine. They say I was lucky, because it just went into the muscle and out the other side. I guess if a bullet hits bone, it causes all kinds of problems. After I yelled my head off and almost passed out from the pain, they just patched me up and kept saying I was lucky and left me to lie here until I’m better. I kept wanting to spit in their faces, when they told me I’m lucky, but then I look across the room to men who have it so much worse than me, and I remember they’re right._  
  
_I think they’re reading our mail. I don’t have proof, but I think a week ago I saw a nurse collecting letters from the men here, and then turning them over to a man in a uniform, and I think I saw him opening them. So now, I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to get you in trouble. Or me, I guess, although I care less about that._  
  
_I hope you’re alright. I hope things at home are just the same as they were before I left. I hope my parents and Becca are okay, too. I only wrote them once. I don’t know what to say to them either. I don’t want to lie, and it’s hard to come up with things to write about. Things aren’t always terrible, here. I’m stuck feeling sorry for myself because I have a bullet hole in my arm, but it’s not all bad. The men I see every day are brave and good, just like you. They believe in the cause, they believe we’re here to help, and we are. The men in charge are strict, but they’re just doing their jobs. The food is good enough. We laugh more than we cry, because we’re all stuck here together so we might as well make the best of it. The air has finally been cooler, this week. Could be much worse. I just miss home._  
  
_I miss home, and I miss you._  
  
_Love, Bucky_  
  
  
  
  
**Fifth letter, dated September 12, 1943.**  
  
_Steve,_  
  
_They’re definitely reading our mail. I might get in trouble for even telling you that. But it’s the truth, and the truth matters more than anything else. You taught me that._  
  
_Been on a couple more assignments since I last wrote. Been shot at a bunch more times, but got “lucky” and haven’t been hit again. Men around me have. You never get used to that. Never get used to the sound of them screaming, to the bright red of blood and the gurgle of their dying breaths and the smell of death and the ache when you have to leave corpses behind because it would put us in danger if we tried to go back for them. Their families deserve a body to bury, and so many won’t ever have one._  
  
_If the army is reading this, I hope they hear all that loud and clear. Maybe this war is a just cause. Maybe we are here to right wrongs and liberate the oppressed and all that. But they should still know the truth. They should still know every one of the men in my unit regrets enlisting, and wishes they were at home with their families, instead of over here fighting in this fucking endless nightmare. Let them put that in the history books. And if they have to also put in the books that Sergeant James Barnes was a fucking coward, then so be it._  
  
_Bucky_  
  
  
  
  
**Sixth letter, dated October 21, 1943.** It is unknown when this letter was posted, but it was before Barnes and his unit departed on assignment on October 23, 1943. Once shipped to the United States, this letter sat in a Brooklyn post office for three months before it was returned to the War Department.  
  
_Stevie,_  
  
_We’re going out on assignment, the day after tomorrow. I’ve written you so many letters, in the four months since I’ve seen you. I haven’t sent any. Most of them, I’ve got rid of. Tossed onto the fire, or ripped up into tiny pieces and pressed into the dirt so no one will ever find them. This one, I am going to send. Because this mission is the most dangerous yet._  
  
_We’re heading into Austria, right into Nazi occupied territory, and there’s a damn good chance none of us will survive it. And if we don’t, if I don’t, there are some things I need you to know._  
  
_I’m sorry if this letter is intercepted, and gets you in trouble. I’m so fucking sorry, Steve. And it might be. I don’t know if they’re still reading letters before they ship them off, but they probably are. Maybe that means this won’t ever get to you. Maybe that means it’ll be read first for approval, and destroyed because of what it says, and I’ll die in the woods in Austria and you’ll never know what happened to me. God, I hope not. I hope I’ll make it, and if I don’t make it, I hope they’ll let you see this. But I can’t promise either. I can’t promise either, but I have to say these things anyway, because there’s nothing else for me to do. You aren’t here, and God willing you’ll never be here, so this is my only option._  
  
_I love you. You already know that, God I hope you do, but I have to say it again. I should have said it so much more often. I should have said it every ten minutes all day long, every day, every day since the first time we ever said it out loud. And I should have said it out loud years before I did. I felt it. I felt it all the way back when we were kids in short-pants, running around the schoolyard, teased for always being so attached to each other. I should have been braver. I know you felt it back then, too, and I let you think you felt it alone. I’m so fucking sorry for that, Stevie. I was such a coward. I always have been. You’ve always been braver than me. That’s not a good excuse, but it’s the God’s honest truth, and I don’t have a better explanation._  
  
_Every moment with you was more than I ever deserved. Kissing you was like heaven. I’m not sure I believe in heaven anymore, but if it does exist, I already know it won’t measure up to what I had with you. Every time you let me touch you and kiss you and cherish you, every time you let me inside you, every time you were inside me, it was all so perfect and so transcendent. See, I did pay attention, when you talked. I learned words like “transcendent” from you. I learned so much from you. So many important things, about how to be a good man, and how to be brave, and how to love someone so completely I felt it down to my bones._  
  
_Officials from the army, if you are reading this, please, it’s my dying wish that you leave Steve Rogers alone. Please. I might die, in the next few days. I’m being sent across enemy lines, I’m doing this for God and country like you asked of me. I’m doing everything you asked of me. Maybe even giving up my life to defend the United States of America. Please just leave Steve alone, please repay my sacrifice by leaving Steve alone. He doesn’t deserve to suffer for the things I’ve said in this letter. If you need to, you can say I forced myself on him, and he didn’t want any of it, and he fought back valiantly. It will destroy my family to hear that, but you can say it, if it keeps Steve out of trouble. Sometimes when every option is a bad one, you have to pick the most agreeable._  
  
_Stevie, I love you so much. If I don’t survive this, I want those to be the last words from me you ever read. I need you to know I’ve loved you every minute I’ve been alive. Even before I met you, I loved you. I knew you were on your way, and I knew I’d wait forever for you to get to me. If I die on this mission, and if heaven is real, I’ll meet you there. I hope it’s not soon. I hope it’s not for 50 years, I hope you have a whole life without me. I hope you live, and love, and go on adventures, and experience everything you’ve ever wanted to experience. And I hope when your time comes, I’ll be waiting for you beyond the pearly gates._  
  
_I hope you know, more than anything, that nothing in my life has ever been more important to me than you. And that with my dying breath, I’ll be thinking of you. Imagining myself back in Brooklyn, back in our walk-up, with the water-stained wallpaper and the chipped dishes and you, warm and sweet and beautiful, in my arms._  
  
_I love you, to the ends of the earth. Remember that, if you remember nothing else._  
  
_Bucky_  
  
  
© Stanford University Press 2010

**Author's Note:**

> [come talk to me on tumblr if you want!](http://paper-storm.tumblr.com/)


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